TMNT: Weightless
by princessebee
Summary: 2k14verse. Raphril. April watches Raphael weightlift. Things get intense. Note the rating.


Raphael grunted, extended his arms and held the bar above his head for a full five seconds, not even flinching when a hot bead of sweat trickled straight into his eye.

Slowly, steadily, with the utmost control, he lowered the bar to within millimetres of his plastron then extended again in a smooth, even movement as the burn licked out across his chest and flickered through his shoulders and arms, that intoxicating release of lactic acid to which he was so addicted.

With a heave, he replaced the bar back onto the rack and slumped completely against the bench, carefully modified to accommodate the curved bulk of their shells, simply enjoying the rush.

Raphael did more weight-training than any of his brothers and it showed. It was critical for all of them, of course, to build their strength and keep their physiques in top shape, but for Raphael it bordered on an obsession. He loved training, particularly loved sparring, especially thrived on a real fight on the battlefield, but pumping iron was a soothing activity for him as well as a challenging one. It served him far better than any form of traditional meditation – allowing him to collect his thoughts, focus his centre and find a point of calm introspection that otherwise eluded him – all whilst satisfying the need to actually _do_ something. Master Splinter had been strict with meditation for all the brothers, emphasising its role as a critical aspect in the life of an accomplished ninja, but Raphael had always loathed it. Time and again they had argued the matter, arguments that would become explosive on Raphael's end as he struggled to explain that sitting still, concentrating on nothing only made him feel more agitated and frustrated – failing to find words that were always difficult for him, his temper would explode and time in the Hashi invariably followed. Then had come the day Splinter had quietly entered the gym and watched his hot-tempered son move through one of his gruelling workouts with careful consideration. Afterwards, Splinter had conceded that meditation could take many forms and Raphael was henceforth obliged to attend their traditional daily sessions only twice a week. Michelangelo had protested, of course, but Splinter had only replied that until Michelangelo demonstrated he had identified an activity that benefited the balance of his mind as Raphael had, he was still required to attend daily. And that if he continued to protest, it would become twice daily. And that if he continued to try and convince his Sensei that playing video games counted, it would be thrice daily.

Now that they were all adults, the dynamics of the household had changed. Splinter's role as their father carried less authority but his role as their Sensei remained sacrosanct. Still, Splinter – whilst a tough and demanding master – had no desire to be a tyrant and whilst frequent meditation was encouraged, it was no longer mandatory. Leonardo, of course, was there every day. Michelangelo showed up once or twice a month, mostly out of guilt. Donatello made an effort on a fairly regular basis. But Raphael continued to go twice a week, out of respect to a father who had made allowances for his most difficult child's particular needs.

But it was his time in the gym that gave Raphael the greatest peace of mind.

The burn in his muscles having subsided, he slowly sat up and plucked his towel from the floor, mopping his sodden face and neck before sucking back water in great, satisfying draughts from the bottle close by. Then he moved to the incline bench, straightened it to a fully upright position, and loaded the dumbbells to their maximum weight – one hundred and ten pounds each.

He had just begun the first set of shoulder presses when there was a rap at the door and a voice that immediately lifted his heart drifted in.

"Hey! Thought I'd find you in here!"

Though his heart raced, he did not pause in his steady, sure movements, merely turned his head towards the door where April hovered, smiling, looking drop dead gorgeous in jeans and a red cap-sleeved shirt, her hair unusually tied up in a ponytail so that the delicate bone structure of her face could be fully admired.

"Hey," he replied, dragging his gaze away before he could be accused of staring. "How you been?" He sounded normal; that was good.

"Yeah, pretty good," she replied and the genuine warmth of her voice made him smile, just a little. He knew she'd been getting more of the kind of work she had always wanted – serious journalism – and though her career was still in its infancy stages, she was unmistakeably happier. And that made him happy. "Can I come in?"

He finished his set and laid the dumbbells aside for the rest period, taking another slug from his water bottle. "Sure. It's the dojo that's off-bounds for you."

He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about April watching him work out. Self-conscious, certainly. A little shy. But also more than a little eager. He knew what he did was impressive. And he felt like he hadn't got the chance to impress April yet – not like Michelangelo, who shamelessly showed off endless flips, complicated katas, fancy chuk sequences and skateboarding tricks. Such gratuitous, obvious displays weren't Raphael's style. Yet he couldn't deny the lick of jealousy he felt whenever April indulgently smiled and clapped her hands for his little brother.

April had wandered in and was peeking curiously about the room, noticing the way the equipment had been modified or adapted to suit their different bodies. "So much work went into all this," she remarked. "Was it Donatello?"

It stung a little; the way she always assumed the alterations that made their home a comfortable place suited to their specific needs were the work of his genius brother. Then again, why would she think any different?  
"Naw," he answered her. "'S'me."

She turned her head to him, her fine brows raised high in interest, an unmistakeably impressed expression illuminating her features and making his heart pound hard. He had the urge to tell her then, about his aptitude for handy work, for building and creating objects that served practical purposes in their lives. If he were Michelangelo, he would've. But he was Raphael and it was time for his next set. So he stayed silent and retrieved the hefty dumbbells from the floor, resuming his position against the bench.

"It's amazing work," she told him, watching as he lifted the dumbbells to his shoulders, then extended his arms above his head, exhaling in time.

"Thanks," he muttered, distinctly aware of her eyes on him, following his every move as he steadily, slowly, lowered and raised the weights. He had wanted her to watch, to see what he could do, but now that she was he felt uncomfortably exposed and on display. The way her cornflower blue eyes roved his physique, watching the play of his muscles beneath his flesh as they flexed and stretched in rhythm with the pull of the weights, was curiously intimate and he was glad for how his exertion disguised the sudden tremble that overcame him.

When he again dropped the weights for a rest, slumping forward with his forearms resting on his thighs, water bottle clutched in one hand and carefully not looking at April, she disconcerted him further by stepping closer and squatting to look at the bulky dumbbells that rested by his toes.

"How much weight is on these things?" She asked wonderingly and he glanced at her, met her eye for an instant, looked away and shrugged.

"One ten."

"_Each?_"

He took another drag of water, another tiny shrug. "Yeah."

He stared carefully down at the scuffed and scratched vinyl that covered the bench, feeling the acid dissipate from his muscles, signalling it was almost time to begin his final set. He could feel April's gaze on him, knew she was impressed, knew she was marvelling at what she had just witnessed – exactly what he had thought he wanted and yet now it was happening he felt only embarrassed and awkward.

"Do you want me to go?" The enquiry was sudden, direct and yet gentle in the way only April could be. Raphael set his water bottle down, rubbed his face roughly with his damp towel and cracked his neck. This was his chance. He could say yes, put an end to his discomfort and unease. It wouldn't be so hard to say he didn't like to be watched working out and she would understand, because she was understanding that way.

"Nah," he tossed his towel carelessly back to the floor and stooped to pick up the dumbbells again. "It's fine."

April sat cross-legged on the floor and watched him openly as he commenced his final set. Raphael stared directly ahead as though she weren't even there, needing to concentrate wholly on what he was doing if he was going to be able to finish at all. But by the fifth rep, his eyes had darted sidewards and in that one quick glance he absorbed her flushed cheeks, the way her pupils dilated and her lips were loosely parted. She'd never looked at Michelangelo like that.

A conflict of feeling battled in his chest. He still felt bashful and awkward but now a surge of pride was swiftly rising to overwhelm it, an irresistible glow of pleasure and satisfaction. He went beyond twelve reps to fourteen, then sixteen. April wouldn't know. Wouldn't guess he was showing off as shamelessly as Michelangelo. His muscles were starting to shake but it felt good and he knew the extra push would ultimately pay off. He grimaced with the strain, feeling every fibre of his rock-hard musculature bulge and inhaled deep as he went for the seventeenth lift.

That's when it hit him. That deep, visceral scent that entered his senses in an overwhelming gust, causing his vision to cloud and his groin to pulse.

Raphael only barely just kept it together. Arms trembling, he finished the rep completely then turned to the side and placed the dumbbells carefully on the floor, resisting the urge to simply let them drop. Swallowing hard and carefully not looking at April, he stooped for his towel and his water, keeping his expression deliberately neutral.

"Wow, Raphael," April sounded a little coy, a little too hard like she was trying to sound natural. "That was damn impressive."

He glanced at her, his cheeks hot and his tail throbbing, his mind a furious jumble. She was biting her lower lip and once again his biceps quivered, this time as he gripped the bench in the effort to resist throwing himself upon her.

He had never encountered that scent before but he knew, on some primitive level, exactly what it was and exactly what it meant and his body responded to it with as instinctual an impulse as the one that had recognised it. He was intensely grateful for the loincloth that bunched between his thighs, though he was uncertain how much longer it would be effective in concealing his involuntary response to the undeniable aroma of April's arousal.

"Just an average day," he quipped weakly, practically mumbling. The conversation between them today was certainly sparkling.

April was getting to her feet, her cheeks still flushed and her eyes bright but seemingly oblivious to the signals she was sending. She wandered to the bench press while he watched the way her ass moved in her jeans and, unable to resist, inhaled deeply again, feeling giddy and intoxicated and utterly disbelieving of what was going on.

Certainly he had wondered at times if April might've been flirting with him, considered that she had indicated some small measure of interest – but always he had pushed the notions aside as ridiculous, stupid – and, worst of all, _pathetic. _As if, in any imaginable reality, a woman like April could be even the least bit inclined to desire a mutant turtle. A stupid, bullish, aggressive and graceless mutant turtle to boot. He didn't have any of Michelangelo's charm, Leonardo's stability or Donatello's intelligence. There was really nothing he had to offer someone as beautiful, intelligent, passionate and strong as April, even if he were human. So maybe she sought him out more, maybe she had fingered his scars and joked about kissing his wounds better and asked him to hang out with her more than the others. It didn't mean anything. That was impossible.

April stood by the bench press and turned to look back at him. "You going to bench next?" He could see her pulse fluttering in her slender neck, noted the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Was she nervous? Her pose by the bench press seemed somewhat staged, awkward. Was she flirting, right then? He knew what it looked like, between humans. He had watched enough television to recognise the signs. If he weren't a mutant turtle he would've said yes. Except he _was_ a mutant turtle. But… that scent. Human senses were dulled; they had to rely on these complicated rituals to seduce each other. She couldn't know she had already sent him the most profound and unmistakeable signal. One that said "fuck me" in an almost irresistible invitation.

Raphael pressed his face into his towel, trying to dull the scent of her with that of his own sweat, mopping his face. "Already did."

"Oh."

Fuck, did she sound _disappointed_? This was too surreal. It had to be a dream. He was dreaming. Any second he'd wake up with his mouth feeling like fuzzy socks and sporting a raging hard on and only hoping none of his brothers had noticed.

"Could you bench me?" April's voice was playful again, so unexpectedly mischievous that he looked across at her, at where she was leaning against the bench press with one hip jutting out, her eyebrows cocked in a challenge as though she believed he would even struggle and she was behaving so profoundly un-April-like he just knew this had to be a dream. Had to be. Even if it had been preceded by a ridiculously long work out. Hey, he loved working out. Maybe his subconscious wanted to include _all_ his favourite things in this fantasy.

He snorted, trying to act natural, trying to behave as though he didn't even notice the pert shape of her breasts beneath her thin tee-shirt, the deep v of her crotch outlined by the denim. "You? Check the load. I wouldn't even break a sweat."

She turned to see how much weight he had loaded on the barbell and he swallowed hard as he admired the fine curve of her figure. He had no idea what to do. Should he say something? _Do _something? Did she expect him to? After all, this wasn't like her menstrual cycle, when her body subconsciously produced pheromones in its innate impulse to reproduce itself. She had sat there and watched him. She had sat there and become aroused by watching him, her body readying itself in anticipation of what she desired. He had picked up what that involved from the movies as well, and more than a little extra from the vintage _Playboys_ he read and before he could arrest the thought he was contemplating what it would feel like and his loincloth was instantly rendered useless. He hunched over and crossed his bulky arms over his lap as April exclaimed:

"Jesus, Raph! _Five hundred pounds?_"

She whirled to look at him and again he shrugged, again that curious mix of embarrassment and pride flushing through him. He scratched the back of his neck, grimaced. "'S'nothing."

And then she was standing legs astride, shoulders thrown back so her breasts jutted out, an eager smile lighting her face. "Bench me. Please." She seemed almost giddy, so young and guileless in her keenness that despite his difficult condition, he found he couldn't say no.

"Turn around," he ordered her. "Gotta lift ya from the back."

She complied, but just before she turned he saw her bite her lip again in gleeful anticipation and his cock throbbed hard as he stood. He wanted her so bad he was almost reeling with it but he knew that no matter what her body's perfume was telling him that he couldn't assume. Couldn't and wouldn't. He had to be sure.

In one big stride he was behind her, grasping the waistband of her jeans with one hand, his other planting itself between her shoulder blades and in one swift movement he bent at the knee and hoisted her up above his head, unable to resist a twinge of smugness at her thrilled gasp. Then he straddled the bench, sat down and lay back, keeping her steadily and easily lifted above him the whole while. He estimated she was roughly one-twenty-five and felt practically weightless as far as he was concerned. The only challenge here was the torment of touching her and having to feign indifference about it. He could feel the outline of her bra strap through her tee shirt where his hand pressed and he was all too aware the firm curve of her buttocks were inches from the knuckles of his other. Her long auburn hand dangled down from its ponytail to his right and he could catch the sweet scent of it as well. April was giggling helplessly, seeming overcome by silliness in a way he'd never really seen her be before. The closest was when Michelangelo was MST3King movies with her. Raphael felt his lips tug upwards in a pleased smirk as he began to rep her, swiftly and easily, and she shrieked, her body quivering all over from her merriment.

The tension he felt was eased by her joy and he relaxed enough to enjoy himself even as he prayed none of his brothers would enter and find him showing off just as badly as Michelangelo.

"Had enough?" he queried her blithely after the tenth rep and he watched her ponytail bounce back and forth as she shook her head.

"More! More!" she cried and he grinned and obliged, pumping her faster and harder and she shrieked again and covered her face, laughing. From where he lay he could see only the curve of her profile but her smile was swelling her cheek and the happiness he felt at being the one to have caused it made his chest feel fit to burst and splinter his plastron. It was painfully rare that Raphael ever felt truly light-hearted but in that moment he felt weightless.

Gently, he lowered her so that she lay across his plastron. He could've sat up and placed her onto the floor, but for a moment he wanted to dare. It would be easy enough for her to slide her feet to the ground and stand up if she wanted.

She didn't.

Instead she curled around, swivelling her lower body onto his and though he was only semi-hard then he felt a tremble of fear shake his heart she would notice. Her breasts pressed against him, every bit as soft as he had always imagined. She folded her arms across his plastron and rested her chin on them, gazing at him, her giggles subsiding though her eyes remained so bright he felt dazzled. He wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her, push those soft lips gently open with his own, feel their tongues flicker. He could practically taste her he wanted it so bad. But did she? He'd never done it before; he'd almost certainly screw it up. Then what would she think? After that ridiculous display of strength and power to disappoint her with a lousy kiss – it was an unbearable thought. Anyway, he couldn't really be sure she wanted him, no matter what his nostrils were picking up. Maybe that was as subconscious a human response to some things as the hormonal cycle of her body was automatic.

"You're so strong," she murmured, suddenly growing quiet and still, her blue eyes a well of contemplation. He snorted and looked away. He knew that. Everyone knew that. "I mean it, I mean – I don't just mean physically, Raphael."

There was a note of something raw and vulnerable in her voice and he looked back at her, feeling his heart begin to pound harder. How dark the blue of her eyes, like staring into the endless night sky. He looked away again, suddenly afraid he would fall into them, and keep falling forever.

"I've never known anyone like you before," she continued, her usually strong and confident voice an uncertain, almost tremulous whisper and he felt the tickle of her fingertips as they began to trail over his plastron.

Again, that heady scent suffused his senses and he shut his eyes against it, the sensation it swept through his body now more akin to agony than pleasure, with her delicate, soft form pressed against his, a tantalising pressure, and her darkly gleaming eyes gazing at him, trying to search him out.

Suddenly she was pushing up against his plastron, raising herself to look down at him and his eyes cracked open of their own accord and he found himself gazing into her face, her perfect, sweet face that now bore an almost troubled expression as though she were struggling to reach a decision behind the dark curtain of those eyes.

Her lower lip quivered and his cock twitched in response. His fists clenched by his sides, desperate to take her by her tiny waist and clutch her against him, to tear her hair free from her ponytail, to kiss her and kiss her until they breathed only each other.

But he didn't.

His whole body was tensed and rigid, waiting for her to make the choice he was becoming increasingly certain she was internally debating. The scent of her grew stronger, his head swirled, delirious, and once again he was fully erect, the leather of his loincloth straining, causing him no small amount of discomfort. But still he waited.

After what seemed an eternity, her eyes fluttered shut and she lowered her face towards his, her soft pink lips parting. He was unable to stop watching, his heart hammering so hard against his plastron she must've been able to feel it reverberating into her, completely mesmerised by the possibility that seemed on the brink of becoming reality.

_Jesus Christ, this is real. This is happening._

There was a crash and a shout from the den beyond and in the next instant April's eyes were wide open and alarmed and she was scrambling off him and backing up, even as he rapidly sat up himself, struggling to conceal his arousal, as perturbed by the unexpected interruption as she was.

"Mikey!" Donatello's shout was livid with rage. "Do you have any idea how long that took to assemble?"

"Hey, you left it sitting right out in the middle of anywhere when you _knew_ I could pass by at any second!"

"_It was packed in a box and stored securely under the kitchen table! I mean, how is it even possible, Mikey? How the hell did you even accomplish that?"_

As the argument raged, April flushed bright crimson and began hastily fiddling with her clothes, tucking her shirt into her jeans, and then smoothing back stray strands of hair. The shock had effectively dampened Raphael's desire and he no longer had to conceal his groin from her but still he remained hunched over on the bench, glaring down at the floor, disappointment and embarrassment waging a war for supremacy inside him as fierce as that of his brothers'.

"Uh," April stammered as she flitted towards the door, flustered and trembling. "Look, I better go. I've got a tonne of research to do. New story. Could be a big one."

"Yeah, no problem," he muttered, disappointment winning out as he heaved himself off the bench and turned his shell to her, striding to retrieve the dumbbells. Bitterness was a sour lump in his throat he struggled to swallow as he hoisted one and prepared to begin a set of kickbacks, not even glancing her way. He sensed her hesitating at the doorway and felt his jaw clench, wishing she would just go ahead and leave already.

"Raphael – " she began, then paused. She seemed to be waiting for him to look at her, but he refused, silently resuming his exercises. After an agonisingly long moment he felt her resign. "I'm sorry I interrupted your workout."

He didn't trust himself to answer.

After another hesitation, she left. He trained his eyes ahead and set his jaw, trying to focus on nothing but the burn in his muscles, on the execution of precise form, on anything but the memory of her perfect lips coming so close to his.

Before he even realised he was going to do it, he'd straightened up and with an almighty heave propelled the dumbbell across the gym. It hurtled through the air until gravity dragged it back down to the stone floor where it connected with a shattering clatter that rang around the lair and abruptly silenced his two still-bickering brothers in the den beyond.

Raphael stood still, panting heavily, his heart clenching painfully in his chest, gazing at the consequence of what he had done. The cement had cracked beneath the impact of the heavy weight and he knew he would have some serious explaining to do later.

He didn't care. He didn't give half a damn. Let Sensei assign him twenty hours in the Hashi, he'd take them all. Anything that would burn the feeling of April's slight, soft weight pressed up against him from his recollection. Anything that would consume his mind until all thoughts of her was pushed from it.

He just hoped she had already left before his outburst. Just hoped she would never know just how much she had hurt him.

**ooo**

___For anyone concerned about how little of substance April had to say in this story, I know! It was deliberate. I was trying to convey that she had pretty much sought Raphael out with flirtation in mind but felt as awkward and uncertain about it as he did. I hope I succeeded? I'm not sure. Also I think we saw quite a serious and under pressure April in the movie but I get the sense she has a very playful, fun side which is why she dissolves into giggles here and wants to be benched (that and she is trying rather awkwardly to seduce Raphael). I think she has to trust someone and know they take her seriously before she can really relax with someone like that. There will be more insight into April and more of her perspective in future stories. I hope this works for you anyway!_


End file.
